


Sammiches

by Replica_Jester



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Anal Stimulation, Hand Job, M/M, M/M Sex, Multi, NSFW, Oral Sex, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, ménage à trois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-19 17:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5975452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Replica_Jester/pseuds/Replica_Jester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Alistair spend some quality alone time, and then welcome Trevelyan in on the fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starting Without Me?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sweet Seduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012155) by [felandaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/felandaris/pseuds/felandaris). 



> _This is my first attempt at Cullistair intimacy. I thank you ahead of time for your patience. Based on Felandaris' Caboodles and Chantry Boys fics._

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Alistair can't wait for Trevelyan to return. Literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based off Felandaris' Caboodles and Chantry Boys series
> 
>  
> 
> and an amazing piece of [accompanying art](http://rainyssa.tumblr.com/post/139152093207/starting-without-me-an-nsfw-cullistair-fic) (correctly assuming?) inspired by this fic *I'm seriously flattered by it!!!* by [ Rainyssa](http://rainyssa.tumblr.com/) *THANK YOU SWEETIE!!! YOU'RE AMAZING!!!*

“Shouldn’t we wait for her to return?” the words are nearly lost within his moans and the slurps that echo grandly about the room just as vibrantly as the shadows that dance from the candles scattered about them.

“She knows her way in the dark.” He gently closes his teeth around the soft skin that nearly melts Alistair over the edge. The king himself is like a candle dripping under the flame of his mouth, and Cullen hasn’t yet detoured from his ear. Determined fingers entangle in his hair as he flickers his tongue, and Alistair hums a new tune, curling into Cullen from every angle. Reaching, grasping, eager to return the favor, but Cullen gently pushes his hand away. _Not yet._ “I believe it’s my turn,” teasing his tongue between a kiss that shudders the mighty king.

Cullen grazes down his neck in slow bites, suctioning his tongue to draw up sensitive skin of a deserving man otherwise neglected. Continual pricks and pinches coax hisses so soon after another they mirror a steaming kettle about to scream. He nips harder, ingraining his very intention to send Alistair home with a souvenir more personal than any poem or carving Skyhold could inspire. Hands grip harder, caught between the undertow of desiring to taste lips, tongue and pushing to relieve the itch for heaven’s depths.

He raises his gaze to the shadows pirouetting on the face of his waning paramour. Closing his teeth over a nipple the same time his fingertip touches down upon a single glistening bead of white cues Alistair to sing the sweetest song, like a mewling flame extinguished by falling into the very pool of desire it was born of. The pulse beneath his finger as he spreads the tiny spill of cream tells him his lover is close to eruption; Cullen laughs into Alistair’s hard breast in thought of Lady Trevelyan finally returning, only to have both of her Chantry boys already unraveled like yarn dolls. He doesn’t give Alistair time to question his giddy trembles.

He drops his wrist to embrace the intimacy of Alistair, and fingers tangle in the mess of curls about Cullen’s head. Alistair cradles the Commander’s head to his chest, and Cullen hears the echo of moans as he glides his hand around royal length. He watches their shadows as Alistair leans, presses, whispers _love_ between kisses that are lost in whimpers as Cullen tugs faster. Hips rise to meet an adoring fist, squeezing the base, tender flicks at the crown to steal breath and quicken thrusts.  

His drops his head, now. Alistair gasps before Cullen even welcomes his friend beyond his lips. Fingers _pull_ at his curls as the king’s head falls with falsetto, _pain_ , the kind that tells Cullen their months apart hasn’t pushed Alistair’s favor from his memory. He still tastes the remnants of Lady Trevelyan in the salty silk beneath his tongue. He cannot take the entire stretch in his mouth, _Alistair has length where Cullen has width,_ but he remembers where to work his hands. Slurping his own saliva only to drip more upon the massive digit, Cullen bobs, his chin knocking into his own knuckles as he traces a finger down the seam of the ginger-maned sack before squeezing, kneading, lingering a finger past the raphe to massage, to _ready_ the closed hole he will drown in soon.

The room is filled with the music of Ferelden pleasure. Alistair balls up in his hand, and Cullen moans in anticipation of what is to _come_. Official royal profanity spills from Alistair’s lips as a twitch of his cock is held in place. A yank on his hair, but Cullen stays put. The pressure from the core of Alistair’s love falling down his tongue in hot, bitter swallows is the deepest gratitude he can offer. It is worth it to hear his name fall in gasps of utter surrender.

Cullen releases his King with a sloppy coo, and Alistair pulls him up before he can wipe his face. Sparkling amber darts all over his face, and Alistair breathes something about _my best friend_ as he cleans the remnants of his seed from Cullen’s lips.

Alistair shudders. “Maker, I taste _terrible!”_

Cullen laughs and leans in for a kiss; there is something in Alistair’s kisses that break his heart. “That’s preposterous.” another kiss from lingering, _ever longing_ lips. “You're not bad, really. Whenever she drinks ale,” _tasting, always trying to memorize each other._

“Like she did tonight?” Alistair is still catching his breath. His hands pull Cullen by the waist, settle him between open legs.

Cullen chuckles. “Yes, like tonight.” he smiles as his own leaking tip finds the tightest clench of skin Alistair is readying for him; the king wets his own hand to moisten the commanding shaft. “That horrid swill makes her taste _awful -”_ Alistair falls into a fit of girlish giggles that crumble the kiss, and Cullen drops his head to a strong shoulder in his own cascading laughter.

He moans as firm hands on his buttocks crown him inside of his king. A gasp is stolen by a kiss, and then unifying gasps dominate lips as Cullen rolls in.

The door creaks open so fast it darkens all the candles on the desk, but neither man startles; only one person has the key. “Starting without me?” Lady Trevelyan’s voice is honey to their ears.

Cullen continues his descent, and Alistair groans in another wave of pleasure as Cullen reaches _that spot_. “When you take your sweet time, we’ll take ours,” Alistair’s voice gives way to another gasp, and a curl of his hips as Cullen smashes himself to the hilt. Cullen’s arms tremble as he holds off for one more kiss. The need in Alistair’s eyes matches his own; he contracts around him in pulses. The first rock of his hips makes the king fail to bite back a groan.

“That’s perfectly all right. My favorite part is just beginning.” She always did like to watch.

 


	2. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan joins the boys in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on Felandaris' Caboodles and Chantry Boys series.

Trevelyan loves to watch her boys. The gaze of wanting, needing, of _love_ and _offering, pleading to give_ of each other, affection so strong she can feel from the other side of the room, every time. _More than surrender._

The strong roll of hips, stolen breath and flimsy arms, Cullen gives in to the fall as Alistair’s hands slide up hard muscle to squeeze him into his chest. She hears the delicate noises of breathless kisses planted upon wet skin, and Alistair groans from behind a bitten lip as Cullen shifts his girth with a circular dip. Trevelyan bites her own lip, a sigh of satisfaction as if _she_ had plummeted though she is sitting far out of reach; her husband has tripped a spot inside that _always_ melts their freckled lover. Alistair looks over as if he’s forgotten she was there, and she nearly melts herself. He looks as if the ecstasy he’s under is just as much from her as it is Cullen, _grateful; how did you know I needed this?_

She opens herself up to prop a foot on the armrest, and two pairs of amber eyes watch as she reaches down. Cullen almost _growls_ as she sighs again, her own fingers sliding between her folds with ease. _She loves to watch her boys._ Alistair beckons her to join them, he doesn’t want her trying to bring herself to heights alone. He can _help_ , he _wants_ to help, _he_ wants to send her soaring. Always eager to make them feel like they make him feel. His fingers each curl, now, as if he’s afraid a single gesture alone isn’t enough. He’s caught between a whimper and smile, _relief she’s here, wanting to share,_ when she drops her hand to his. They don’t want this without her, they’re not complete without her.

Alistair’s fingers drift down her legs as he guides her over his face, kissing as much thigh as he can before she settles herself right where she, where _they_ both want her. Alistair is hard already, from Cullen, not her. His breath steams her centre before his chest rises deep below her, _he inhales her bouquet,_ groaning, and now his mast twitches for _her._ They all share the same _need_ now, no difference between each yearning for explosion. The king’s greedy cove confiscates her husband, but he is already making up for it. A flat tongue, hot and wet covers the entire opening of her lips, and she moans as he kisses each petal, deep, _pulling_.

Cullen rocks Trevelyan like a passenger aboard a royal ship at stormy sea, the mattress sinking and rising beneath them as he directs the very tide. He lifts Alistair’s legs, hold behind his knees, and Trevelyan is taken from breath again. Muscles clench to define themselves from the firm chest down to a trail of golden tendrils below his navel, stretching, cinching, showing off for her as he allows himself to drown in the depths of the king. The mere _sight_ of his body plunging into sensuality heats her at the core. While Alistair _moans_ and _whines,_ Cullen _grunts_ , always ringing with sheer masculine appreciation. Trevelyan knows both she and Alistair crave that sound, _proof_ of Cullen the _beast_ , Cullen the _lover,_ audible desire of the man who knows _just_ where push.  

Alistair gives each lip a little suck as he withdraws his own. Smooth, _exposed_ , ready to stretch, ready for _him_ ; Cullen has shaved her again. Alistair doesn’t mind the hair, he likes the way it feels between his fingers and around his mouth, feels like _closeness, here_ not there, but on her hairlessness is like a welcome home, leaves her _vulnerable_ , no curls to shy away behind. He can always play with Cullen’s; the Commander has enough curls for both Alistair and Trevelyan to play with.

The king gasps into her when a gentle nip on her tender bud freezes her in mid-clench _everywhere_ , her sudden tight grip her own special way of reminding him he’s never forgotten. She lubricates her own hand to assist the king in his own arrival. With both ends occupied, Alistair may even empty twice, or twice as hard; the thought of him spilling out _all over her, dripping down her breasts_ tightens the pit beyond Alistair’s tongue.

She hardly has to slide up, down, Alistair is already moving for her, both guided by Cullen’s rhythmic thrusts and on his own accord. Pleasure knotting inside the king from both sides. Cullen is not far from climax himself, slowing with each new retreat, hesitating to fully dive in again, but each continual stretch jerking Alistair’s hips, bouncing Trevelyan atop him. The combined friction has Alistair competing with the volume of her voice, but her velvety pleats muffle him, and little puffs from his mouth and nose make her wiggle even more than the groin beneath her fist.

A single digit, slick with her own juice, circles the close just past Alistair’s nose. He is _tender_ , looping a delicate massage, _he doesn’t miss the arc of her belly despite her silence._ Without warning, he dips, pushing his thumb to the knuckle, creating a yelp that echoes around the three of them. Alistair is the first to burst, gentle wind against her slick folds as his body shakes with laughter. Cullen sees the king’s long fingers resting thumb-less on her bum, almost losing balance in his own giggles when he realizes Trevelyan was taken by surprise. With the boys giggling at each end of her, she can’t help but join them, laughing more at herself; _this is_ Alistair _, how did she not expect this?_

Cullen crashing into her then regaining balance shifts his reach inside Alistair, causing escalating pleasure, a _deeper_ plunge, a harder pull on the bead at His Majesty’s mouth, faster flicking from the tip of his tongue, her hand contracts as if she’s afraid to let go, plucking at his swollen crown where the skin pulls back. Trevelyan and Alistair both squirm in front of their commanding force. Laughter has succumbed to _panting_ , _whimpering, primal grunts_ and _pleas for more._  

She lifts her head, Cullen is not far away. Brows deep, their eyes meet. He crashes into her once more, smashing their faces in sloppy kisses, bitten lips, _tasting tongues_ as they prepare to peak off together upon their king.

There is an itch Alistair’s tongue cannot reach, though. Trevelyan pulls until he is forced to let go, and he whines a broken protest as she climbs off. Her eyes lock on _majestic_ amber now, as she turns around and climbs over. _The royal length will extend her every courtesy she requires,_ and Cullen graciously pulls her into position right up against him. She hovers just long enough, the anticipation in Alistair’s eyes alone is nearly the push that sends her spiraling. Penetration has never been easier. Cullen presses her backwards into his rippling muscles, thick callouses sinking into her breasts, rough skin plucking at her nipples, _teeth_ at her neck from behind. She’s louder than even Alistair, now, though he’s certainly trying to keep up. She doesn’t even need to move above him, his hips thrusting and falling on their own to the fervid pace Cullen has set.

Alistair reaches for her, but his thumb has trouble staying on target. _Rolling,_ hips _pouncing_ on another, the three of them locked together so tight it makes even Alistair curl in, his other hand dug into Trevelyan to hang on. Cullen releases a breast to reach down, strong fingers clasping in urgency, amber eyes lock, hard and determined. _Together._ Cullen picks up speed, so do voices, _breath_ , _breasts_ bounce wildly, even the one Cullen holds on to for dear life. Alistair’s clutch wrings Cullen’s fingers, and Cullen knows the look on his face; Alistair’s nearly there.

Alistair shakes off an iron hold to push Trevelyan off, and though Cullen drives his last, _one, two quick thrusts_ to erupt _inside_ , the king is the one who shows it, as if Alistair spends in his place. The room is filled with masculinity, _strength,_ smells of sweat and men, _satisfaction._ Alistair looks to the woman he never let go of, grazing her face while Cullen still throbs inside him, a _loving_ touch. She tears her eyes from the fascination of spilling seed, and with a groan of release from both boys, they converge on her. Robbing herself of sharing bliss is never a problem; fingers delve _deep_ and push all her buttons with lips, teeth, tongues. They have her wriggling and gushing in a flight of her own before the last of their own milk stops flowing. _Together._

 


End file.
